Page 91 of Her Ex's Father
I force myself to look at him. “I was afraid to tell you. Afraid you’d see me as… tarnished. Dishonest. Like I was keeping some ugly secret.” My voice cracks. “And it’s cheating the system; if they, the government, had found out what we did… I’ve felt so damn lonely most of my life, Ben. Even when I was surrounded by people, even when I was doing everything I was supposed to. But then you?—”
My breath stutters. “You made me feel seen. Wanted. Like maybe I wasn’t a burden. Like maybe I could belong to someone. Be good at something.”
The confession rips out of me raw, leaving me shaking. I can’t stop the tears burning at the corners of my eyes, tumbling down my cheeks.
Ben doesn’t speak. Not at first. He just closes the distance between us in three steady steps and gathers me into his arms.
The solidity of him, the sheer size, swallows me whole. His chest is warm and unyielding, his heartbeat steady against my cheek. His hand cups the back of my head like he’s afraid I’ll shatter.
“You’re not tarnished,” he says roughly, into my hair. “You’re not dishonest. You’remine.That’s all that matters.”
Something inside me breaks—something brittle I’ve been holding onto for years—and I cling to him, sobbing into his jacket. Relief surges through me, wild and unsteady, because he means it. I can feel it in the way he holds me.
When I finally ease back, he doesn’t let me go far. His thumb brushes over my damp cheek, steady, sure.
“We’re leaving,” he says simply.
“What?”
“Pack your things. We’re leaving.”
But there’s no threat, no anger in the declaration. Just a softness in his eyes that I’ve seen a dozen times before—a lookthat makes my cheeks flush, makes it feel like we’re alone even with the entire city below us.
Before I can protest, he’s already guiding me back toward the stairs, his hand firm at my back. It’s decisive, commanding—but not harsh. He’s not dragging me away. He’s guiding me forward.
Jack is waiting in the living room, leaned casually against the arm of the couch with a mug in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He straightens when we come down the stairs, and his eyes flick between us.
Ben doesn’t posture, gloat, or do what I’ve feared in the last few moments coming back down: tell Jack he better never look at me, contact me, again. He just reaches out his hand. “Thank you,” he says, voice low but genuine. “For taking care of her.”
Jack looks at him for a long beat, then nods once and clasps his hand. “Of course.” His eyes soften when they shift to me. “You know where I am if you need me, Maddie.”
I nod, throat tight. “I know.”
Ben retrieves my bag from the guest bedroom, his eyes narrowing with something sweet at the sight of my things barely unpacked. Tucking a few things back in, glancing my way as if to ask if that’s everything, he slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing and steers me out the door. I glance back once—Jack gives me a small, encouraging smile—and then the door shuts behind us.
I expect the airport. Another flight. Home.
But when the car pulls up to the Four Seasons, my brows shoot up. “What is this?”
Ben pays the driver, then turns to me with a ghost of a smile. “A suite I booked three days ago.”
“You—what?”
His gaze sharpens, heat flickering there. “I told myself it was insurance. In case you needed time. But the truth?” He exhales, shaking his head. “I was hoping. Hoping you’d let me bring you here. Hoping you’d give us a chance to fix what’s between us.”
My chest swells so painfully I can hardly breathe.
The suite is breathtaking—gold-hued walls with a built-in bar (not that I could have anything from it), green marble accent tables, a sprawling rug calling to my tired feet, and a wall of windows overlooking the city. Ben tucks our baggage away and trails me as I walk through, chuckling at the fact that this suite is pretty much the same size as Jack’s apartment.
“Oh,” I moan, leaning against the wall and staring into the bathroom, “thank God.”
A smile ghosts Ben’s lips. “I thought you might like that.”
He’s talking about the soaking tub, a perfect free-standing curve of white porcelain with a gorgeous brass faucet. Two robes hang on the wall, waiting, and the lights spill an amber glow throughout the room that compliments the late afternoon light.
“Thank you,” I whisper, turning to face my husband. His brows knit as I step into his reach, gently drawing his hands to my hips. Searching his face, I find that same stripped-down intensity from the rooftop. No mask. No performance. Just him.
“I don’t want space anymore,” I murmur.
